Husbands
by define-serenity
Summary: [Husbands AU] Sebastian Smythe is a famous athlete. Blaine Anderson is a famous actor. They get married one drunken night in Las Vegas while celebrating marriage equality. ONESHOT. COMPLETE.


**disclaimer:** without prejudice. the names of all characters contained here-in are the property of FOX and Ryan Murphy. no infringments of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.

**author's** **notes:** dedicated to Rachel (**wingerpelton**) for making the gorgeous Seblaine gifset based on the webseries _Husbands_! you don't need to watch it in order to follow the story, but i highly recommend it because it's the _best thing ever_. special thanks to Nikki (**xsaturated**) for the beta-read!

* * *

**Husbands;;**

* * *

His head's resting on the toilet seat when his snoozing gets interrupted by what can best be described as some kind of animal noise. It's only when the sound is accompanied by, "Bas. Bas, where are you?" that he ascertains he's actually in the bathroom of the hotel room, his mouth tastes like bile, and he's only wearing boxers.

"Where am I?" the unpleasant sound continues, before he flushes the toilet and tilts his head back.

The bathroom tiles feel cold against his flushed skin.

"You're in the bathtub," he manages to utter. "Please, be quiet."

He watches Blaine sit up clumsily, his legs thrown over the edge of the tub while he's still seated inside. "What happened?" he asks, attempting to crack one eye open, but it's clear Blaine's in the same state he's in. His curls seem to be defying gravity, flattened on one side but sticking every which way on the other side of his head, and for some reason he's wearing a very comfortable-looking sweater but no pants.

"What– Why am I in the bathtub?"

"Beats me," he answers, the rhythmic throbbing in his head the only thing stopping him from thinking Blaine looks cute like this. Then again he could be drunk as a skunk and still be able to conjure the thought. "There's a perfectly comfortable bed in the next room neither of us slept in."

Blaine palms over one of his eyes. "Where did you sleep?"

"Right here, in all likelihood," he says, and stands up, somehow managing to make it to the sink without his knees giving out. There's confetti everywhere, and he locates Blaine's pants right alongside his clothes in a corner of the room.

He groans, "I look like someone who had work done to look like me", bemoaning the reflection that greets him in the mirror; he has bags under his eyes and his hair is pasted to his forehead. "We should get cleaned up." He runs a hand through his hair a few times to give it some swag. "Pack our bags. Head back to LA."

Blaine stands up in the bathtub, stretching out his arms to find some balance. "Yeah, I have an early call time," he says. "And you have batting–rehearsal."

"Practice," he corrects.

Blaine points at him and shouts "I knew that!" before putting a hand to his face and regretting the volume of his voice.

He walks over to Blaine and steadies him with both hands at his waist. "Remind me never to party with you again."

Blaine grins that irresistible smile he's certain he fell in love with quite some time ago, his eyes going in and out of focus. "Bas, we have marriage equality at last," he says, shaking his shoulders. "Celebration was in order."

And he can't argue with that; the moment the news had hit Blaine called him up and tempted him with a spontaneous trip to Vegas, and he was way too into Blaine and his enthusiasm for the cause to say no. His agent had warned against it, _public image and all that_, but he'd only informed Tanaka because he was contractually obligated to–he was determined to go to Vegas and celebrate with Blaine, get drunk and party until the early morning.

He'd never been that politically engaged before coming out last year, but ever since he's felt the growing responsibility of representing something in an industry where people preferred him closeted.

"I'm going to bed," Blaine groans, swinging one leg out of the tub, reaching out a hand for help.

"No, we have to pack," he says, and takes hold of Blaine's hand, his eyes drawn to something new around one of Blaine's fingers.

Blaine steps out of the bathtub and starts protesting with an "I–" until his eyes fall onto their locked hands too.

Their _left_ hands.

Blaine's hand adorned with a ring around his ring finger.

His own hand with an identical ring around the exact same finger.

Their hands.

Two rings.

Vegas.

They look up into each other eyes.

"_Did we get married?!_" they shout in unison.

He releases Blaine's hand and stumbles back on his heels, the thought racing down his spine. "No," he says, staring at the foreign object around his finger. "No." He shakes his head. "We're too famous for something this fucked up to happen."

Newspaper headlines appear in clear print in front of his eyes: **Out Athlete and America's Gay Sweetheart: Married During Drunken Vegas Weekend**, paparazzi hounding them, staking out in front of his home, climbing over the fence to snap a picture of the... _newlyweds_.

"We're Britney," Blaine whispers, but instead of the usual comical note his voice betrays panic.

He blinks a few times to make sure he's not still sleeping, but reality sinks in hard. This can't be happening.

The media were the ones who stamped them as a couple, they'd been seen out and about often enough for the tabloids to speculate and Blaine's fans to go apeshit at the prospect of him dating someone, but he and Blaine have never used the word. Not that he hasn't caught himself thinking of Blaine as his boyfriend, but they've never talked about it. They've both been enjoying their time together without feeling the need to label their relationship.

Only now they're _husbands_?

"Maybe we bought them for show," he says. Even if he's grasping at straws it already sounds so much better than _we celebrated marriage equality by getting so drunk that we got married in Vegas_.

Blaine picks his pants up from the ground. "You think we celebrated marriage equality by getting fake married in Vegas?"

"We've known each other for six weeks, Blaine."

It's been an amazing six weeks, stretching from that first time he saw Blaine in person in that cute coffee shop not too far from the gym to lazy mornings spent in bed where they were just two guys slowly but surely getting to know each other. They've sacrificed a lot of their free time to spend it together and that's how it was meant to continue, dates stolen in between crazy busy schedules, slowly, logically.

And maybe it would've grown into something more serious, maybe in time they both would've come to feel they were each other's be all end all and he'd have done the decent thing and asked Blaine to marry him. _Maybe_.

They've skipped right past the pleasantries straight to the down and dirty. They're _married_?

Blaine digs around in his pants until he finds a crumbled piece of paper in one of the back pockets.

"What–" he starts, afraid to even consider it. "Blaine, what is that?"

Blaine unfolds the page and takes a few seconds to read it, before he takes a deep breath. "Certificate of marriage," he says, confirming his worst fears. "With our names on it. Signed and notarized."

"_Aaah_," he utters, the only sound that comes to mind, his stomach stirring with nausea again, and he has to grab back for the sink to keep upright.

"Sebastian, relax." Blaine closes the distance between them and puts both hands on his face. "Marriages can be annulled if you're too drunk to know what you're doing," he argues. "Which, believe me, _we were_."

"You're right." He nods, if only to convince himself. "If we act fast and no one finds out it's as if it never happened."

But at this point he wouldn't be surprised the universe has decided to conspire against them: Blaine's phone dings with a Google alert in the next room and he doesn't trust the news to work in their favor. His heart drops to his stomach–this can't be happening to them. He likes Blaine too much to let their thing be ruined like this.

He follows Blaine into the bedroom. "Blaine, don't check it," he says. He doesn't want to know, he doesn't want to hear it, if the news doesn't travel outside this room they'll be fine, this can be undone, they can go back to lovely dates and (really good) casual sex without the added pressure of the media hounding them.

As expected, Blaine's words don't bring any comfort. "It's all over the internet," he says.

He sinks down onto the bed. "Tanaka's gonna kill me."

Blaine sits down next to him. "Because we got married?"

"Because I came to Vegas for a cause he was reluctant to have me openly support, only to get drunk and marry the guy I've been dating for six weeks," he says. When he puts it like that it sounds like the most irresponsible thing he could've possibly done, and there was a time such an act was right up his alley. But he's not a teenager anymore. "Who also happens to be a famous movie star."

Blaine pulls him closer and presses a kiss to his temple. "Calm down," he says, caressing soothing circles at the small of his back. He releases a shaky breath. "We'll figure this out."

He looks at Blaine sideways, but finds little to object to once he finds those hazel eyes that have puzzled him since the first time he caught them with his own.

"We'll pack and head back to LA, okay?" Blaine asks.

He nods.

Blaine leans forward and kisses him softly on the lips, before pulling back and wrinkling his nose. "Go take a shower," he says. "You smell."

.

His agent doesn't kill him. There's an impressive shouting match during which Ken turns every shade of the spectrum between red and purple, and his phone keeps buzzing with phone calls from reporters who want the inside scoop or an exclusive interview with the brand-new Anderson-Smythe family (he's not sure why but he thinks it's best to go about this alphabetically).

He and Blaine had decided to take some time to sort through their options and deal with their respective management before coming to an informed decision, but the more he thinks about it the less certain he becomes. He has no idea what they should do.

That's how he ends up on Blaine's doorstep later that night, to see if Blaine's had more luck, if he'll offer him the clarity that's still eluding him.

He'd been with a few guys in high school, but most of his time had been spent on school, getting good grades, and playing ball, before a talent scout had discovered him.

The game came first after that, even though he liked filling his nights with random men, most of them one night stands, all cloak and dagger. The job required it, his reputation required it, or so he'd been led to believe. He never had the chance to consider anything more serious because the world expected him to be straight and to date girls, so instead he upheld the image of being single.

Until that simply wasn't good enough anymore. After years of pretending to be someone he wasn't he'd grown tired of hiding, the constant caution about where his eyes landed and making sure the guys he did sleep with kept their mouths shut had worn him down.

So he'd come out, under an uproar of criticism and discontent, but he'd taken hold of his own life like he never had before, and even though the result was still scary at times, it was the best decision he ever made.

Most of his romantic entanglements this past year hadn't meant much either; he had to find himself as an out man first and that proved more difficult than he'd anticipated. It wasn't until meeting Blaine that he realized he'd been chasing the same meaningless forays, the same faceless men whose names he wouldn't remember the next morning. He'd always admired Blaine's public image from a distance, the way he was out and proud of who he was, never apologizing for anything he said or did, or who he was seen with.

Blaine was scary and enticing, a challenge and a way to reinvent himself. Blaine taught him more about himself in six weeks than his management had in five years.

Maybe that's why he married him.

"Sebastian," Blaine utters as he opens the door, looking no more composed than him.

"Hey," he says tentatively, and for the first time he's not sure where they stand. It was clear before, whether they got together for sex or a relaxing night on the couch, out for dinner or a play–he knew what was appropriate when and in what situation. Now their foundations are shaking beneath their feet and he has no immediate solution other than them going their separate ways.

"Come in," Blaine says, and he shuffles inside one small step at a time, stopping inside the door.

There's an uncomfortable tightness in his chest and around his eyes and the thought surges through him right there and then– he doesn't want this to end. He likes Blaine, he cherishes the time he's had with him, even the quiet intimate moments where they talk about their lives, their demanding _everything_ in this crazy business they've somehow stumbled into. Blaine makes it all bearable.

He raises a hand to Blaine's face, thumbing over his jaw, and when Blaine rises on his toes they give into it for a few infinitesimal moments, a kiss like so many others, unencumbered by the media frenzy they started, just his lips and Blaine's, moving together.

Blaine grabs at his chest, a desperation similar to his own, and he rests his forehead against Blaine's, bathing in the quiet before the storm that keeps them both locked in place.

Because it isn't long before the weight of that ring again comes crashing back.

"Have you seen the news?" he asks, but he recognizes the news anchor's voice coming from the living room before Blaine needs to say it.

A few seconds later he and Blaine settle down on the couch, their eyes never leaving the television screen.

_'First baseman Sebastian Smythe shocked the sports world last year by letting us know which team he really plays for,' _the news anchor reads from the teleprompter. _'Now he's added to his stats with a quickie Vegas wedding to actor Blaine Anderson. Wonder if Smythe got him a diamond.'_

He and Blaine glance at each other briefly before their eyes fall to their rings–they're both sterling silver bands, proper wedding rings. He's not sure Blaine would've liked a diamond.

_'Popular gay Chandler Kiehl, what's your take on this?'_

"Oh God, no," Blaine groans, already dreading what tabloid reporter Showbizz Chandler will have to say.

_'Well, it's raising my eyebrows, that's for sure,' _Chandler Kiehl giggles open mouthed.

"I dare you to raise an eyebrow, botox boy," Blaine mutters.

_'It'd be a huge setback,' _Chandler says._ 'The first marriage under the new law and we get these two clowns clearly drunk, half-naked, out of control.'_

They've both done stupid things that upset their management before, like he'd been caught skinny-dipping with another guy after one of their big wins years ago, or Blaine getting photographed kissing one of his co-stars on the set of one of his first movies, but the public had forgiven them for that. And those mishaps weren't as potentially damaging as this. He'd stared Tanaka down when he'd used the word 'damage' earlier, but the more he thought about it the more he realized his agent was right. He and Blaine stood for something in both their industries, and even though he believes marriage equality should also give him the right to divorce, that belief never included a Vegas wedding he can barely remember.

_'Here's another look at the footage.'_

This time, they both groan. Blaine has probably seen the video as often as he has by now and repeat viewings didn't make it any better–it looks bad. Soon the screen shows him and Blaine, both half-naked, Blaine hoisted on his back, and it's painfully clear they're drunk.

On the footage, Blaine spreads out his arms as if he's flying. _'In closing, I would like to thank the Academy,'_ Blaine declares, _'–__and the rest of America can_ suck it._'_

Blaine turns off the television and tosses the remote well out of range, before turning his head to look at him.

They both burst out laughing.

"I can't believe I said that." Blaine giggles, falling back into the couch. "My management's all over my ass."

He lies back against the back of the couch. "I had the head of GLAAD on the phone an hour ago," he says. "They said they'd prefer if we didn't emerge from our drug den and file for divorce the day after we got married."

"It would suck to be the first gay divorcees since the new law," Blaine says, a callousness in his voice he wishes he couldn't recognize. Blaine reacted a lot more sober to this than he did, he stayed calm, and somewhere deep down he's decided that's because Blaine isn't as serious about them as he is.

"We could stay technically married for a while," Blaine adds.

He turns his head to look at Blaine. "You'd do that?" he asks, but he discards the idea as soon as the thought occurs. If Blaine doesn't regard him as his boyfriend then maybe they should cut their losses right now, or at the very least try to go back to how it was.

"No," he says, staring blankly ahead. He doesn't want to appease public opinion, he wants to keep dating Blaine. "I can't ask you to sacrifice your life for public opinion. Where would that end?"

He wants to give Blaine a chance to talk, hear him say how it isn't solely his decision and he has a public image to uphold as well, but he can't help but feel that saying the words, deciding to get this marriage annulled, will also lose him Blaine. And he's not ready to face that possibility yet.

He closes his eyes. "This is a mess."

"Stay for dinner?" Blaine asks, his fingers tiptoeing up his arm. "We can talk about it and–figure things out."

Defeat washes over him. They have to make a decision, they can't let this dangle, because the longer they wait the longer their relationship is open to speculation. If they don't decide what to do, the rest of the world will decide for them, and they'll be far worse off.

But they don't talk. They order a pizza and watch some television while they wait for it to arrive, but when their dinner gets there the silence turns long and awkward. He doesn't know what to say to fix this, he's not sure such words exist. He wants to prove to Blaine they could go back to what it was before despite this mess, but he's not sure how. Everything has become so serious.

It's Blaine who, eventually, breaks the silence.

They're in the kitchen cleaning up when Blaine whirls around and blurts out: "What if this wasn't a sacrifice?"

"What do you mean?"

"What if this marriage–worked?" Blaine asks. "We haven't gone out for very long, but–"

Blaine takes a deep breath and averts his eyes, only to find his again after a few seconds have passed; Blaine's nervous all of a sudden, and he can't see any reason why he should be. Until Blaine takes a step closer, his hazel eyes big and pleading, never leaving his. "I know I've only ever used the word _like_, but truth is–I'm crazy about you."

His heart swells in his chest and he has to tame his lips to stop them for gushing love. Here he was worried that Blaine didn't feel the same, but maybe Blaine had been holding back the same way he has. Six weeks isn't a long time and he doesn't fall for someone easily, but he has it bad for Blaine.

He reaches for Blaine's hands.

"You'd stay married to me?" he asks.

"Only if you want to. If you don't–" Blaine shrugs, "then public opinion can _suck it_."

He smiles, but bites his lip. "You know we haven't even said 'love' yet."

Blaine draws in a breath and smiles up at him. "Then save it and surprise me sometime."

He leans in and brushes his lips against Blaine's, and soon they sink into another kiss, a committal kiss, one that lacks desperation but holds the quiet promise that they won't let what they have go to waste.

"Okay," he breathes, forehead settling against Blaine's.

"Yeah?" Blaine asks, his fingers tracing random patterns through his hair.

"Yeah." He releases a breath and pulls Blaine closer, his arms winding around Blaine's torso. "For the record," he says. "You're the first decent guy I've ever dated and I had planned on keeping you around."

"As far as statements go, whisking me off to Vegas and marrying me was a bit extreme."

He chuckles. "You're an idiot."

Blaine pinches his sides. "Your legally wed idiot now, thank you very much."

.

He spends the night at Blaine's and they don't end up talking a whole lot more. Without an annulment there's little else they need to discuss so he coaxes Blaine into the bedroom with a firm tug to his belt loops. They sink down onto the bed and make out for a good long while as if it's their first time all over again–they wind each other up, Blaine's fingers dig into his skin and their hips meet for friction until they go out of their minds with want.

The pressure is off, and they take full advantage of it.

By morning Tanaka has left him several voicemail messages, but he ignores those in favor of having a quiet breakfast with Blaine; he juices some oranges while Blaine makes them eggs and it's like before, no need to say anything but small talk, no burdens to bear while they're together, and he almost forgets that there's an entire world out there anxiously waiting for answers.

They hear Sugar screaming the moment her convertible pulls up to Blaine's house.

He and Blaine are still at the breakfast table, Blaine's legs are in his lap and his hands are roaming under his shirt as they share lazy kisses. Blaine's smiling against his lips and for now that's all the truth he needs; they're comfortable around each other and there's no need to hide anything.

And he's happy that they don't have to hide from Sugar either; she's known about them from the start, and for someone so intent on the latest gossip, Sugar was remarkably good at keeping secrets.

Her squeal reaches over the car door closing and it almost blots out the sound of the doorbell.

Blaine makes a beeline for the front door, but turns back to him first, "Let's not tell her we didn't plan this, okay?"

"Really?" He raises an eyebrow. "You don't trust your best friend to keep her mouth shut?" he asks, even though he struggles to remember if he's ever actually seen Sugar with her mouth shut. He has no particular issues with her, despite her proclivity to invite herself as Blaine's plus one to his public events or crash one of their dates. But Blaine loves Sugar, they became best friends in high school and moved to LA years ago, so he tries to respect that friendship as much as he can.

On occasion, however, he even catches Blaine slightly exasperated by her shenanigans.

"OMG, you guys," Sugar storms in, straight past Blaine. "IDEHTW!"

He frowns.

"I Don't Even Have The Words," Blaine explains, and sits down next to him again.

Sugar heads for Blaine's liquor cabinet and takes out a bottle of champagne, popping the cork while she rants, "Have you been planning this? Who proposed? What were your vows? _Can I be your surrogate mother_?!"

He shakes his head and feels Blaine reach for his leg, clearly inching towards one of those exasperated moments.

"This. Is. Exciting!" Sugar squeals again and jumps up and down, before she walks over with two glasses of champagne, ignoring the two steaming cups of coffee standing right there on the table in front of them.

She looks at Blaine, "Sebastian can teach you to take a step back every once in a while and smell the roses." Then she fixes her eyes on him, "And Blaine can teach you that you don't have to control everything all the time."

His eyes go wide and he leans sideways into Blaine, "Whoa."

"Yeah, it's this savant thing she does from time to time," Blaine says. "It doesn't last very long."

Sugar sits down opposite them, keeping the bottle of champagne all to herself. "So where are you gonna live?" she asks, but doesn't give them any time to answer. "Can you imagine doing joined taxes? Meeting the in-laws? _Making married couple friends_?!"

Before Sugar showed up he was somewhat convinced he and Blaine could figure the little things out as they came, but Sugar's observations are as astute as they are frightening. It's only been six weeks, but they're married now–they haven't met the other's parents, they aren't living together, and during that time they've become exactly those things to each other that Sugar mentioned: he's often made Blaine see that he has to pause and take a breath to enjoy the fruits of his labor, and Blaine has shown him there are things out of his control, things he can't account for, like falling in love with a movie star in a coffee shop. And getting drunk-married to said movie star.

But they still have big decisions to make.

Sugar reaches across the table for their hands; Blaine offers his hand without question and casts him an inquisitive glance when he hesitates. He sighs, but caves, and takes hold of Sugar's other hand.

Sugar beams, "I'm so glad we got married."

.

On Wednesday they visit three properties in the hopes of finding a bigger place that will suit both of them. His apartment doesn't have the space to properly accommodate a second person, and while Blaine's condo is significantly bigger, Blaine's taste in decoration differs from his in every way possible–Blaine likes deep oak colors while he prefers open spaces with light tones. They also decide they want two bathrooms, because as comfortable as they are sharing certain bodily fluids, there's a very specific ceiling to the comfort they feel around each other.

For some reason he has yet to discern Sugar tags along and she pulls no punches pointing out everything that's wrong with each of the houses they look at. The first doesn't offer enough privacy, which frankly he has to agree with–they already have paparazzi crawling up their asses every time they venture out in public and he'd rather not offer up his home life on a platter.

At the second property Sugar picks a fight with the realtor because _if those are hardwood floors you probably believe your extensions fool anyone, _sorry_, self-diagnosed Asperger's_. The realtor's eyes bulge out of her skull and Blaine apologizes profusely, but confesses to him later that Sugar was absolutely right about the extensions.

Before they enter the third property Blaine has a talk with Sugar about indoor voices and insulting people to their faces, and much to his relief Sugar stays silent through the entire tour. That is until she sees the size of the supposed walk-in closet, actually walks in, and raves about dead sardines having more wriggle room than this.

They decide not to take Sugar with them the next day.

When he lays eyes on the second property the next day he thinks they've found it, their future home, a two-storey house flanked by trees on the right and the left, a staircase leading up to the front door because the main living area lies above street level–this is all the privacy they could want.

The house opens into a foyer, which links to views of the living room, the open kitchen and even the dining room, the whole house seemingly made out of glass. There's a study at the front of the house and the cabinets in both the living room and the kitchen are a smokey dark wood. The kitchen and dining room look out over a large terrace at the end of which there's a cozy screened deck.

And it only keeps getting better: there are plenty of rooms upstairs, an ensuite to the master bedroom and a second bathroom, while the basement level holds a laundry room and an exercise room.

But when he joins Blaine out on the terrace he finds him staring out in the distance, eyes forlorn and empty, arms crossed over his chest and he can't remember ever seeing Blaine this sad.

"You don't like it."

Blaine startles and looks at him, something broken in his eyes. "No, I love every inch of it," he says, arms uncrossing, but he averts his eyes, turning out again.

It dawns on him painfully fast, "If you're having second thoughts–" but he's not sure what he means to say. They don't have to do this marriage thing, he'll sign the papers no questions asked–

But Blaine's blurted out, "No," before his mind manages to unravel what his heart already knows to be true: he couldn't stand to lose Blaine. "I need you to–"

Blaine comes a few steps closer and pushes their bodies together, his hands on his chest while his slide down to Blaine's waist. He can't decipher Blaine when he gets like this, draws inside himself for a while and tries to handle all his problems on his own, those moments when he goes solemn and silent and there's no way for him to get inside. It's frustrating, because he wants Blaine to feel like he can trust him with his innermost demons.

He finds Blaine's eyes, big and shining and somehow pleading as well. "Make it worth it, okay?" Blaine asks.

He takes a deep breath, hurting for Blaine and all the years of bullying he's had to endure–Blaine's been out much longer than he has and he's dealt with a lot more scrutiny, even before he became famous. As much as Blaine has been his guiding light in a very scary and critical media world, he often envies him for having it so easy. It makes Blaine feel guilty when he thinks it because their lives are in no way the same and he wouldn't change his past, but the criticism he suffered is nothing compared to what Blaine lived through.

And he's not sure how to say it, make Blaine realize he's into this 120 percent and it's not a trial-wedding to show the world they're responsible adults capable of making rational decisions. Blaine needs to know he's just as crazy about him and he's not pretending so the rest of the world can rest assured.

"Come here," he says, and traces them towards the table on the terrace, pulling out a chair and directing Blaine into it.

He reaches for Blaine's ring and peels it off.

"What are you doing?" Blaine asks, but he goes still once he sinks down on one knee, lips parting in surprise.

His heart's racing even though they're already married, but this is as close to a love confession he's come so far and it's strangely terrifying; they both want this to work out so badly that they forget there are two people in this relationship who very much need to hear that.

He takes hold of Blaine's hand and looks up into his eyes. "Blaine Anderson," he starts, getting emotional at the tears in Blaine's eyes, "you have turned my life upside down."

His hands are shaking and his voice is soon to follow so he tries to get out as much as he can. "And I don't mean this past week. You know who you are and you're proud of who you are, and that's made me a stronger person. It's made me–better," his throat closes up the closer he comes to the question he wants to ask, because here's this boy who's cracked him wide open and he no longer knows what his life would look like without him. "Will you do me the honor of–"

He closes his eyes and hangs his head, overwhelmed by how naked he allows himself to be around Blaine. He's never felt this way about anyone before and he doubts he ever will again–he wants to be able to say it, that even though they were drunk they didn't lose all their faculties. This wasn't a mistake.

One of Blaine's fingers curls under his chin, forcing him to look up again.

"–joining you in finding out if our most irresponsible decision may also be the best?" Blaine asks.

He smiles. "Something like that."

"_Yes_," Blaine whispers without hesitation, and pulls him into a kiss, arms wrapping around his neck. "Yes," he repeats, and hugs him tight.

Behind them the realtor coughs politely, trying to get their attention.

Blaine hiccups a laugh, but doesn't let him go. "We'll take it," he mutters.

.

The painters work fast and their new furniture gets delivered on time, and before either of them has fully come to terms with what they're doing they're moving their books and clothes and all the trinkets they've accumulated over several years of living alone. He's never lived with anyone, so he's not accustomed to sharing spaces with another person 24/7 and he has no idea if he's ready for this. But considering he and Blaine have already skipped a few steps in this budding relationship of theirs it's a situation he'll have to learn to live with.

"I can't believe you let Sugar talk you into getting your sleep number," he says, depositing some of his sweaters in their new oversized walk-in closet. He was far more entertained by how big a deal Sugar was making out of it–she'd made a speech about compatibility, because Blaine's number was half his, but he'd stopped listening once she launched into analogies with leopards and zebras.

He makes his way back into the bedroom, where Blaine's refolding all his sweaters and shirts for him and arranging them in neat piles. Blaine hums a noncommittal sound, focused on the task at hand, chewing his lips.

"Are you scared?" he asks. He doesn't want to be the one who keeps doing this to them, but Blaine's been spacing out all day–if Blaine has doubts he'd rather hear it now than find out when they're all unpacked and entangled in a commitment they'd rather get out of.

Blaine nods, followed by an almost imperceptible shrug. "We're starting a life together," he says, hands at his hips and his clothes forgotten. "Even if we–"

Blaine sighs and sits down on the bed. "Moving in together is a big step after eight weeks, but we're _married_. Really, properly married."

He leans back against the dresser, regarding Blaine closely–he can't deny Blaine's doubts aren't his own, that they're going to tell the world this is forever. But what's far scarier is more personal to both of them–it's like Blaine said, _they're starting a life together_ while up until two weeks ago neither of them so much as thought beyond their next date.

"I'll have to come to your games."

He chuckles, "You already come to my games," he says, vividly recalling the first time Blaine was in the stands cheering him on, the team's colors painted in squares on one of his cheeks. A few hours later that paint would get smeared all over his new sheets, Blaine dressed in nothing but his jersey, face buried in the pillows and his ass sticking up, willing and waiting for him.

Blaine smiles. "Now I'll be sitting with _the_ _wives_."

"And I'll walk the red carpet with you."

Blaine falls back on the bed and stares up at the ceiling. "It's a pretty big commitment, that's all."

"One you can still back out of," he says, even though that's not what Blaine's saying.

"You know I don't want to," Blaine answers as he leans up on his elbows.

He walks over and lies down on his side. "Then–" He puts his hand on Blaine's stomach, rising and falling in rhythm with his breathing. "I promise to hold your hand every time you feel like panicking. I'll learn to tie your bowties for you when you're too nervous to do it yourself. I'll cook your favorite meal when you're feeling down."

Blaine turns his head sideways, a smile curling around the corners of his mouth. "Guess we're in this together, hu?"

He nods. "We can do this."

Blaine scoots closer and captures his lips in a kiss they both instantly relax into, until something catches the corner of his eye.

"Are those the robes from the hotel?" he asks, noticing the crest on the fabric peeking from one of the boxes at the head of the bed.

Blaine takes a quick glance over his shoulder. "Yeah."

"You're the kind of person who steals things from hotels?" he asks, immeasurably amused every time he finds out something like this about Blaine. He knows a lot of people steal robes from hotels, but he's only ever seen it happen in movies.

"You're not?"

"A common misconception," he says, before the word 'compatible' rears its ugly head again. It's silly how such a little detail settles under his skin and causes the tiniest doubt, but people usually go through the trouble of _dating_ to figure out if they match, they spend time inside and outside each other's lives–some people date for months, if not years before making the decision of moving in together. What if there are things about him Blaine can't stand, little habits he's never thought about?

He's heard plenty of his teammates complain that their girlfriends nag about how they leave the cap off the tube of toothpaste, or don't fold their towels–he probably has an enumerable amount of bad habits and he's never had a boyfriend to point them out. What if he's terrible at this?

He lies down flat on his back, his turn to stare up at the ceiling.

"Are we going to take turns freaking out now?" Blaine leans up on an elbow, caressing a hand under his shirt.

"I guess."

Blaine smiles. "Don't worry." He pushes a kiss to his cheek and lies his head down on his chest. "Next time we're in a hotel I'll steal everything you can't."

.

He nudges the tip of his shoe at the tape holding the red carpet down, waiting on the sidelines for the photographers to finish shooting Blaine from every possible angle–Blaine revels in the attention, he's quick to smile and acquiesces most of the requests the photographers shout his way. He'd quite underestimated how much time went into these kinds of events before the main event even started–Blaine's stylist had dropped by the house two hours before they had to leave to do his make-up and hair and try out a few outfits.

And Blaine was an achingly handsome man without all the fuss, but tonight he shined like a veritable Disney Prince–he looked like a man worthy of awards, his curls tamed into a high coiff straight out of an 80s film, a Calvin Klein tux complemented with a black bowtie. He's never been worried about anyone stealing his spotlight, he prefers to stay out of it, in fact, but he'll gladly sacrifice his spot for Blaine any day.

Blaine looks at him smiling and calls him over, his nerves nearly collapsing in on themselves. This is their big coming out, they haven't confirmed anything since the rumors about them started flying around weeks ago, but here they are, side by side, as _husbands_. But the world isn't shaking beneath his feet, the sky isn't raining fire and brimstone, so maybe things'll work out. He's turning this into much a bigger deal than it is.

"How're you holding up?" Blaine asks as his arm slips around his waist, his smile reaching up all the way into his eyes.

The words spill from his lips beyond his control, "So damn proud to be your husband tonight", but it explodes in his chest like fireworks and it's all the truth he needs right then.

Blaine beams up at him and the line goes crazy, cameras flashing near the speed of light and he'll probably be seeing spots for a few days, but it's all worth it if it makes Blaine happy. He doesn't need the spotlight, even though his contracts and endorsements require him to show up at certain public events from time to time, but he's long since accepted that part of Blaine does–he works his ass off every single day and gives his projects all he's got, he gets sick from all the work he takes on sometimes, so it's nice to see him enjoying the responsibilities the job adds.

They smile for the cameras for a good few minutes before Blaine is ushered down the line towards the reporters to take a few interviews–he's possibly even more nervous for those. He and Blaine talked about what they would say, what truth they'd send out into the world and would be comfortable living with, and he hopes he doesn't trip up. Blaine's manager had coached them both a little, but for the most part they wanted the interviews to reflect their own feelings and their own words, not something that sounded fabricated.

Blaine's already talked to a few reporters before his manager signals for him to join one of the interviews–he assumes Blaine's manager knows that the tall blonde will ask the right questions. It shouldn't still surprise him how this business works.

"So, Sebastian," the reporter asks, clearly geared up for this primer, "what's it like being married to a world famous actor?"

It's a strange first question to be faced with, he's never thought of Blaine as _that guy from the movies_, or that stunning appearance in GQ magazine last year–of course he's always known who Blaine was, but they met in a coffee shop of all things, and as much as his life had changed over the years, there was something wonderfully mundane about that. And he never meant that in a bad way.

"I don't really consider myself married to a celebrity," he answers, reaching an arm around Blaine's shoulders. "I married Blaine, not his fame."

So far so good, and no lie has passed his lips, but it was sure to come.

"Who popped the question then?" the reporter asks, clearly baiting for more information, or worse, hoping for one of them to make a mistake.

But Blaine weaves into the conversation easily. "Sebastian did," he says, flashing his thousand Watt smile. "It was very romantic."

And that wasn't a complete lie either–his almost proposal was rather romantic, even if it came after their actual wedding, but they're not splitting hairs here.

The following day the major news outlets that didn't get a targeted interview rerun some of the highlights of the Met Ball, including carefully chosen segments of their interviews. They watch it in bed in the morning, cuddled close under the sheets as they see themselves on the flatscreen mounted on the bedroom wall.

"People are saying we just went to Vegas and got drunk," he'd told a reporter last night, because there was no point in denying they tied the knot in Vegas–the footage was out there for all to see and it was better to acknowledge it, "but it was completely planned."

The screen cuts to another interview with Blaine: "All we can say is they clearly don't know us very well."

Blaine curls into his side and he turns the television off; he'd rather devote some quality time to _his husband_ than the media's spin on their relationship. "We did good," Blaine mumbles against his jaw, working his way up by planting kisses on his skin, a hand wandering lower underneath the covers.

"Yeah?"

Blaine nods, lips sliding into a smile, and next thing Blaine clambers on top of him and traps his hips between his thighs, turning his morning considerably more interesting.

.

Two weeks pass by in a blur and he realizes he should have worried about them finding time for each other in their busy schedules rather than his bad habits. Because it doesn't feel like they're living together at all: Blaine's next project is booked a month from now, but he's flying all over the globe for film festivals, back and forth between LA and New York, taking on photoshoots and interviews where he can fit it in.

The only times he sees Blaine are in the morning before he leaves, already packed and ready to go and he barely manages a goodbye kiss, or late at night when he comes home and they're both too exhausted to even talk about their days. It's like living with a ghost whose presence he notices occasionally. Because what's worse is that there are days he only sees Blaine on a television screen.

And he's busy too, he's either at the gym or at practice with games scheduled in between all that, but he'd swear he saw Blaine more often before they got married.

They're both to blame, he's all too aware of that, maybe even more conscious of the fact that Vegas was a pretty big shock to them both–what they did was stupid and irresponsible, they should never have gotten that drunk. Their judgment got impaired and it could've destroyed what they had–they were lucky their feelings were so strong already, because after the media craze these past few weeks he's not convinced they could've maintained a relationship should they have gotten that annulment. None of their dates would've been just dates anymore.

He misses Blaine, but they both took some time to make sense of everything, reach back for a routine that was hectic but familiar territory before they could truly accept that it's really happening, they're living under the same roof _as husbands_. They made a mistake but landed on their feet, but love or not, they needed the breather.

Soon enough they'll find their balance, they'll work out this crazy thing, get back to getting to know each other.

He comes home late one Thursday night, he'd refrained from taking a shower in the locker rooms in favor of an extra long one in the comfort of home–not that it feels like a home yet, all their stuff's there, but the house hasn't been lived in, there are no pictures of them, or stains on the coffee table because he forgot to use a coaster.

Blaine's car is in the garage, a car had picked him up a few days ago.

But as he steps into the lower foyer he can tell the lights upstairs are on, and the washer in the next room is tumbling a load of clothes.

He makes his way up the stairs, his head spinning because Blaine isn't supposed to be home for another day, but as he climbs the steps to the first floor, his eyes first meet Blaine's naked toes tapping out a silent rhythm, those stupid blue shorts that make his ass look dead sexy, and Blaine's eyes shining bright.

"You're home," he says, dropping his bags haphazard to the floor.

"I wanted to surprise you." Blaine beams, and throws his arms around his neck to pull him into a hug. He winds his arms around Blaine's waist and holds him close. "I'm going to be home for a while," Blaine adds, the distance between them falling away completely–he can feel it down to his bones, how Blaine came home for him, for them, and he couldn't be more relieved.

He's still sweaty and he can't smell all too appealing, but Blaine buries his face close to his skin. He lifts Blaine a few inches off the ground, "Come take a shower with me," he says, before setting him down again, their lips meeting in affirmation.

Clothes come off on their way upstairs, pants and shirts treading a path all the way to the master bathroom, where they break apart only because the first torrent of water is so cold they both need a moment to adjust, laughing against each other's lips.

He rubs Blaine warm while Blaine soaps him up, fingers drawing nonsense on his skin and wiring through his hair.

They kiss each other senseless, hands roaming over every patch of skin they can reach over and over again, lips tracing patterns up and down their necks and torsos and soon their tongues follow too. He moves a hand down between Blaine's cheeks, twisting him into a frenzy, their hard-ons smoothing together.

Blaine moans his name into his skin as he works him open, his nails digging half moons into the small of his back.

And he's always known that what he has with Blaine is more than physical, it's more than he's ever had with any of the faceless men he wasted his nights on when he was closeted, but when he turns Blaine around and pushes him up against the wall, watches his husband brace himself and spread his legs, he's overcome with a lust that's rare, it's all-encompassing of physicality paired with the startling understanding that this is it for him. This is everything he never knew he was looking for.

They walk out of the shower sated and pruney, mindful of the fact that even though they're married, even though their lives have been running in the fast lane for a while, they're still two guys learning about one another, and that entails a little irresponsibility from time to time.

He locks eyes with Blaine in the bathroom mirror. "How about we have some wine out on the deck?" he asks, kissing Blaine's shoulder, quite determined to take advantage of the time they have.

Blaine leans back into his body. "Sounds nice."

He presses a kiss to Blaine's shoulder and leaves him to his rigorous skin regiment, throwing on a pair of sweats and an old hoodie from his college days. He makes his way downstairs and carefully picks out a bottle of red wine from their small wine rack and grabs two glasses. By the time he's finished Blaine's feet pad down the stairs–he's holding a pair of dark-rimmed glasses.

"Are these yours?" Blaine asks, even though they can't really be anyone else's. He hasn't worn them in years but he likes to keep a pair handy; they must've somehow ended up in the wrong bathroom.

"You know I wear contacts."

Blaine walks over and puts the glasses on him, smiling as he takes a step back to look at him properly. "You look like Clark Kent."

He chuckles and shakes his head, flooded with childhood memories.

"What?"

"When I was a kid I was obsessed with Superman." He smiles, suddenly that little boy again sat on his grandfather's lap, watching Christopher Reeve flying around the world so fast he turned back time. "My mom still claims I messed up my eyesight by constantly wearing my grandpa's old prescription."

Blaine reaches both his hands for his hips, inching closer towards him, his lips puckering around a question. "Did you–rip your shirt open like Superman does?"

"Hell yeah."

Blaine looks up at him and his eyes are swimming, high on something he can't describe any other way but love. "Tell me more," he whispers.

"More?"

"About you as a kid." Blaine draws closer and plants a kiss to his jugular. "I wanna know everything."

A few minutes later they're out on the deck settled on the couch, just the two of them and an electric fire keeping them warm. They sip their wine and he tells Blaine stories about a boy who grew up in a broken family, his parents divorced when he was five and many of those memories involved being pulled back and forth between a mother that tried hard to care but lost herself in her work, and a father who didn't care at all and often left him to his own devices.

But then there was his grandfather, his mother's father, who he spent time with whenever his mom couldn't–he took him to his first baseball game, taught him how to catch, marked his entire childhood with moments of happiness.

Blaine lifts his legs in his lap, listening to his every word, and it's like old times. Though 'old' times is all pretty relative after only two and a half months.

.

By the time Blaine makes it home the party's in full swing–he'd invited some of his teammates over for barbeque and beers after their big win earlier this week and none of them were complaining. It was just the guys, no wives or girlfriends, and with Blaine out shopping with Sugar for most of the day, he figured it wasn't a bad idea to have the party at the house–it was about time someone actually used the terrace anyway.

He only notices Blaine when he steps out onto the terrace with Sugar in tow, both blinking at the scene they're watching.

"Hey, babe." He smiles. "Come join us."

But all he gets as an answer is Blaine and Sugar exchanging a quick glance and he has the creeping suspicion that he's in some kind of trouble. "Can I talk to you?" Blaine asks, and some of his friends whistle behind him. "Alone?" Blaine presses, before making his way back inside the house.

"Daddy's in trouble," Sugar sings and smacks his ass as she passes him, but becomes wholly focused on his teammates.

He's hesitant to find out what's going on, Blaine has no reason to be upset with him and as far as he can remember he hadn't done anything to warrant this. He follows Blaine into the study at the front of the house, well out of hearing range and out of sight of their friends.

"What is this?" Blaine asks, his arms crossed tight over his chest.

He shrugs, still clueless. "It's a barbeque for the guys."

"I can see that." Blaine's eyes go wide. "Why didn't you tell me about it?"

And he's not sure if it's Blaine's tone or what the question entails that makes him defensive, but he's blurted out, "You're not the only one who makes decisions around here," without really understanding where it came from in the first place. He's still leading his own life, there's a part of it that's private and his alone, he doesn't have to consult Blaine about every decision he makes.

"A decision implies that both parties know what's going on," Blaine counters, until his posture changes and he frowns. "Is this about the dog?"

He blinks. "What?"

"Because I apologized for that."

"No, I–" He shakes his head, reeling at the sudden turn this conversation's taken.

It's true he wasn't all that pleased when Blaine stormed into the living room last week to announce Sugar had bought them a dog–Blaine was holding the golden retriever pup in his arms, smiling so bright he feared the veneer might shine off the cabinets. He'd been upset, and felt it was his right to be; they'd talked about getting a dog but he thought they'd do that together, not with Sugar in the mix. He's long since realized Sugar is part of his life now too, but he'd hoped Blaine would see he can't be this impulsive without talking to him first.

And now he's gone and done the same thing to Blaine without meaning to; he honestly believed Blaine wouldn't mind, he likes his friends, or at the very least he puts up with them, so he figured they could have a nice time while making their home more homely at the same time.

But Blaine keeps talking, and he's forced to recognize that this might be about something deeper than his own impulsive decision-making.

"You can't cut me out of parts of your life, Sebastian," Blaine says. "I'm not like those other guys you've been with."

It's the first time Blaine's insecurity truly bleeds through and it breaks his heart to see it. Maybe he doesn't say it often enough, or maybe he hasn't found the right words yet, but he will. One day he'll find the exact combination of words Blaine hears so clearly and true it tattoos itself into his skin.

"We're married," Blaine says, "and marriage equality also means we're equal to each other. And if you don't see that–I guess annulment's still an option."

"Blaine." He takes an unconscious step forward because he can't stand to hear this. Clearly there are some things they need to talk through, things he hadn't even considered because his past lies behind him and he's committed to Blaine. "I'm sorry. I should've checked with you first."

He wants to say something more meaningful, that touches Blaine deeper and patches the wounds his doubts leave him with. But for now his mind draws a blank.

"This is new to both of us, Sebastian." Blaine wipes at imaginary tears. "We might hit more snags along the way. We might–"

Silence.

He fills in the blanks, "–discover we're completely wrong for each other?"

Blaine sniffles and shakes his head. "I don't want that to happen."

"Me neither." He takes hold of Blaine's hands and puts them on his chest, the light that falls in through the window catching Blaine's wedding band. "So let's make a pact," he says, inspired by their miscommunication and his fear of losing the best thing that's ever happened to him. "From now on we'll be completely honest. We won't be worry about what the other one thinks, and we'll listen to each other without judging. Okay?"

Blaine nods. "Deal."

"Yo, Bas!" a voice sounds through the house, followed by Sugar's screechy laughter. "Where the hell are you, man?"

He looks back over his shoulder, torn between his duties, but he can't leave things where they are with Blaine. "What can I do to make it up to you?" he asks, desperate to see a smile cross his husband's face again.

Blaine purses his lips and gives it a few moments' thought. "Let me sleep in your jersey tonight."

"Sure." He chuckles. "But I can't guarantee you'll be getting much sleep."

"Go back to your friends." Blaine laughs. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

.

The mornings after games Blaine lets him sleep in, so he's not surprised to find the bed empty when he wakes up. He'd heard Blaine shuffling around the room earlier, probably picking up the clothes they'd left discarded on the floor the night before, because they're nowhere to be seen. Blaine's voice drifts up from downstairs, so he assumes he's either on the phone or they have a visitor, so he decides to put on some clothes just in case.

He pads out onto the landing, hearing Blaine more clearly, "Mom, it's been months, why are we still talking about this?" and his curiosity gets the best of him. He'll only hear half of the conversation but he can't recall ever hearing Blaine on the phone with his parents.

Meeting the parents is a topic neither of them has broached yet, and he thinks it might be a long while before either of them does–his mom has been begging to drop by to meet Blaine, but he's not quite ready to subject Blaine to his mother's level of scrutiny. And he hasn't even heard from his father since Vegas.

"Yes, it was planned," Blaine sells his mom the same lie they sold the press. He'd probably do the same. "We wanted an intimate ceremony, just the two of us."

He likes to believe that if they'd done it properly, fallen in love, gotten to know each other, moved in together and then decided to get married, they would've opted for a modest wedding. He pictures Blaine standing in front of him in a tux that matches his own, saying his vows to the only person that needed to hear them, sliding that ring around Blaine's finger as a token of their love.

"Mom, please," Blaine sighs, and he can feel the frustration like it's his own. Blaine doesn't talk about his parents very often, but that's because they were absent during his childhood and most of his teenage years–Blaine was left in the care of babysitters and later his older brother Cooper and their parents had been none too pleased when both boys decided on a career in show business.

He's met Cooper, and despite being slightly manic at times he seemed like a decent guy–he and Blaine got along as well as one could expect from competitive brothers, but they both tried, which was sort of a beautiful thing to see.

"No, you're not going to meet him," Blaine says.

His heart drops to his stomach. Did he just–?

Why would Blaine not want his mother to meet him? Maybe if he'd worded it different, had used the word 'want' or added 'yet', but this seemed so final. Wasn't he worthy of meeting the Andersons? Would they think him too less for their son? Or worse, is Blaine ashamed of him?

He's only been out for a year and even though he hasn't exactly lived in denial about his sexuality or was even ashamed of himself, he did hide, he sacrificed his personal life for public opinion, gave into the fear his management felt for his career.

He makes his way downstairs, the dog running over and jumping up and down.

"Morning, baby." Blaine smiles, grabbing some bowls from an overhead cabinet. "I'm making pancakes."

"Great."

"Okay, what's wrong?" Blaine's eyes narrow on his face. "You're never happy when I cook."

And normally he would've found it in him to laugh or make another joke about Blaine's terrible cooking (he never did learn), but his panic has turned into near nausea.

"Are you really into this?" he asks, cracks in his armor–he's fallen for Blaine harder than he has for anyone else before, but if Blaine doesn't feel the same, if Blaine feels any less, then what's the point in going any deeper. "You and me? Because if you're not–"

Blaine's face falls. "Did I do something to make you think I wasn't?"

For a moment or two he considers lying, to pass off Blaine's comment as a son refusing to introduce his boyfr– _his husband_ to his parents because they might say mean things, and God knows he can understand what that must feel like. But Blaine had sounded so resolute, had put it so absolute and harsh–he wasn't going to meet the Andersons. And since they made a deal to tell each other the truth he figures he might as well come out and say it.

He takes a deep breath, "I heard you on the phone."

Blaine closes his eyes. "Shit. I didn't–"

"Are you ashamed of me?" he asks. "I know I haven't been out that long–" and Blaine's older than him in _gay years_, as Sugar so delicately put it once, maybe Blaine settled for him, maybe this marriage really was all a facade to fool the rest of the world.

"Sebastian, no, I'm not ashamed of you." Blaine rounds the kitchen island. "You have to believe that. I'm proud to be with you. You're exactly what I've always wanted in a–husband."

Blaine smiles at the word, still odd to both of them, but this time around he fails to see the humor. He's sort of panicking right there on the spot and so far Blaine hasn't said anything to ease his breathing.

"You're supportive of the cause, of me and my choices. My parents aren't." Blaine casts down his eyes and it cuts through him, fast and painful and he feels like such a dick for bringing this up. "They never have been."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because they're my parents," Blaine says, a tear running down his cheek, "and I love them, and it breaks my heart to think they don't love me the way I am. But you do, and I don't have the words to tell you how incredibly grateful I am to have you in my life. And that I get to call you my husband."

He pulls Blaine into a hug. "Baby, I'm so sorry."

"No, I'm sorry." Blaine's fingers dig into his back and he grabs a tighter hold, every part of him aching for Blaine. "I should've told you."

It's jarring how he seems to come out on top as the lucky one–his father never cared enough to express his displeasure and his mother accepted it immediately, and he's only endured the hate and scrutiny for a year. But Blaine, his Blaine, out and proud since he was twelve years old and the whole world has tried to box him in, his parents, his management, hate groups, they've tried to remake him into someone he refuses to be.

Blaine pulls back. "And I want you to meet my parents, one day, when we're both sure of who and what _we _are."

"Okay," he whispers, kissing Blaine's forehead.

.

"Yes, oh God, right there." Blaine pulls the bedding completely askew and shivers beneath him, his entire body taut and clenching to get some release. "Baby, please, I'm so close," he begs.

He curls himself close over Blaine's body, his hips grinding into him at a steady rhythm, reaching underneath Blaine's body to take him in hand.

Blaine draws in a sharp breath. "Oh God–" His back arches and he can't seem to decide which movement to work into, back against his body or into his hand.

"It's okay, baby," he whispers, struggling to keep his voice in check while heat coils at the base of his spine. "I've got you."

"Sebastian–" Blaine moans, bunching the sheets in both hands and pushing his ass back at his own rhythm so he only has to move his hand.

"That's it, baby, oh God–" Blaine clenches around him as he tightens his grip and they both come only a few moments apart, cussing and moaning, grabbing at each other's bodies, riding out their orgasms together. He kisses between Blaine's shoulder blades, patiently waiting for his breathing to even out.

He peels back the wet sheets and kicks them to the foot end of the bed, making sure the comforter covers both their bodies as they slowly cool down.

Blaine turns around and pulls him into a kiss. "God, I've missed you."

He smiles into Blaine's lips, "Missed you too, Mr Anderson-Smythe."

"Hmm," Blaine hums, barely taking a breath between kisses. "I like that."

"Good," he whispers, pressing one last kiss to Blaine's lips before they settle their heads into the pillows, legs tangled, aimlessly gazing into each other's eyes.

Blaine was gone almost a month on a shoot in England, and despite keeping in touch through phone calls and Skype, he'd found it a challenge to live alone after getting used to having Blaine around. It was a strange kind of sensation, missing his husband, because it was only temporary and Blaine was always a phone call away, but he'd never been happier seeing Blaine walk through the front door, jetlagged as hell, but he was home, where he was supposed to be.

Now they'd started making up for lost time, Blaine had a few days off and baseball season was over, so they spent time together any chance they could, even places the paparazzi could find them. He'd taken Blaine back to the coffee shop where they'd met, a distant memory, yet clear as day.

Blaine had been with Sugar, of course, and he'd caught his profile from across the room–he knew Blaine from magazines and had seen some of his movies, always having admired how he handled himself as an out gay man in Hollywood. But it wasn't his public image that got him to notice Blaine, it was the sunlight filtering in from outside the window, giving Blaine a full on halo, lighting up his smile and his eyes. It seemed cheesy, and maybe it was, but he'll never regret walking over to that table and introducing himself.

And he's pretty sure Blaine didn't even like him at first, slightly prejudiced towards people in his profession and very wary of his reputation–yet somehow Blaine had given him the benefit of the doubt.

"I love you."

He lets it slip without thinking, without feeling the need to hear it back but secretly hopeful, having found the perfect words to seal his commitment.

Blaine blinks a few times, as if he's not sure if what he heard really came from him or a dream-him sleep was trying to trick him with.

"You said I should surprise you," he says, suddenly uncertain whether or not he actually did say it, but then Blaine surges forward and captures his lips with his own, turning them over so he's lying on top of him.

"Flawless execution." Blaine whispers, smiling down at him. "I love you too."

* * *

#

**if you can, please let me know what you think!**


End file.
